


Sweet Dreams

by Mottlemoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Consensual Somnophilia, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Greg Lestrade is a Beast, M/M, Married Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Married Sex, Sex, Sleep Sex, sleep kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:00:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29943468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: Mycroft has a sleep kink; he likes waking up to find his husband touching him. Greg, his husband, lives to serve.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 12
Kudos: 185





	Sweet Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> This story used to be a ficlet, kept with all the others in my collection. On the request of a reader, it is now free. Fly, my beautiful dove. Spread your smutty wings and go.

It's a power thing, of course. Greg isn't in any doubt about that. His husband wields far too much authority during the day. If Mycroft wanted, he could collapse the political infrastructure of entire countries without even leaving his desk. That sort of power only ever exists in balance, and it means that when Mycroft needs to relax, he likes to hand the reins to someone else for a while. The antique oak chest at the foot of their bed looks like it contains winter blankets; it's true that the collection of toys and bondage ties stashed inside certainly helps to keep them warm.

Sometimes toys aren't even required, though. 

Sometimes it's just about the situation.

One particular kind of closeness never fails to blow Mycroft's fuses. Greg doesn't do it often; the thrill is in the rarity. If Mycroft ever comes to expect it, it'll lose its kick, and Greg doesn't want his husband to ever lose this. Last night, Mycroft was on a work call past one AM, tying up loose ends so they could have a long weekend together. When he finally came to bed, he was too exhausted and burned out to fuck. They cuddled for a while and fell asleep together, wrapped up in the dark like dormice in a grass nest.

Mycroft is still sleeping now, lying on his back in a pool of early morning sunlight. It catches on the hints of fading red in his hair, kissing each un-neatened curl with a little flash of flame. The sheets rest gently across his naked body. Neither of them ever wear pyjamas at home. Mycroft takes some with him when he's staying in hotels for work, in case of night time fire alarms. Greg has come to hate the sight of pyjamas folded beside a suitcase. They mean he'll soon be deprived of his Mycroft for a while, who'll return to him tired and stressed. 

For a few minutes, Greg simply watches his husband with fondness. Nobody else gets to witness Mycroft this way. Nobody sees him this vulnerable, this soft. They were fucking for nearly a year before Mycroft stayed the night after sex. Mycroft's personal life is conducted with absolute and perfect privacy, and Greg has become the core of that life. He's never prouder of it than in moments like this. 

As he watches Mycroft sleep, it occurs to Greg that it feels like one of  _ those  _ mornings—and as soon as he's recognised the thought, one of those mornings begins. Smiling to himself, Greg consciously relaxes his mind into a slow and easy state, letting all his thoughts grow molten and soft. It's always a thrill, wondering how far he can get before he's discovered. It's become something of a game over the years. The trick is to ignore the natural urgency of his own body, take his time. This isn't really about him, after all.

He starts by stroking the outside of one of Mycroft's thighs. He keeps the long glide of his fingertips slower than Mycroft's breath, not light enough to tickle, not firm enough to press. Mycroft's body knows his touch now. As he strokes, he thinks about all their familiarity and closeness, the trust they've grown over long and happy years. His fingertips whisper to Mycroft's skin that they are loyal and loving old friends—no threat.

Over the course of long minutes, Greg eases his stroking slowly upwards. As he pets Mycroft's inner thighs, a first sleepy murmur is given. Mycroft shifts a little, breathing in. His body relaxes with his outbreath, his legs naturally opening, and Greg smiles to himself again as he watches Mycroft sleep. He strokes slowly, his fingers brushing higher each time; Mycroft's breathing seems to deepen, but never breaks. He stirs a little now and then, subconsciously opening to more and more, his cock filling out as his body responds to Greg's touch. At last, Greg feels confident enough to progress.

He shifts his own weight with enormous care, snagging the lubricant from the bedside as he moves. He lets it take him a couple of minutes to get into place, kneeling between his husband's open thighs and gazing down at Mycroft as he sleeps. Mycroft is still deep, still tired after the late night. He doesn't even twitch as Greg gently pulls the sheets to one side. 

Greg coats his fingers generously with lube. He doesn't want to be fumbling for more at a crucial moment. The game only has a single round, and today he wants to win.

As he slips his lubed fingers between Mycroft's thighs, searching slowly, Mycroft pulls in a hazy sigh sound. In his sleep, he parts his legs and shifts against the feeling. Greg holds his breath, following Mycroft's movements gently.  _ Easy, baby. Only me. Just your Greg. _ After a few moments, Mycroft settles again. 

Greg waits for nearly a full minute before carrying on.

His intimate caresses harden Mycroft's cock more and more, thickening his breath and rising colour in his cheeks. It's a hell of a turn-on, seeing Mycroft get aroused in his sleep. If he's dreaming, the dreams are clearly helping. He seems restless already, sleepily spreading his thighs wider and making small sounds as Greg rubs his tight knot of muscle. His breath hitches with the first exploratory press; he takes it though, beautifully behaved for Greg even in his sleep. His breath leaves him as a shivering sigh.

His heart now pounding, Greg leans down. He moistens his lips with a careful flash of his tongue, and spends an unhurried minute or two easing his mouth into place around Mycroft's cock. It's getting harder to take his time. He's reached the stage now where he almost wants Mycroft to wake up. He doesn't know why this has always excited him so much. It's something about Mycroft lying there so vulnerable, so safe, trusting and wanting and letting Greg close to him even in his sleep. Mycroft's cock is nudging at the back of Greg's throat before there's even a sleepy grunt, more likely caused by the gentle ingress of Greg's finger. He waits, watching closely, his mouth full to the brim of his husband's cock.

Mycroft's breath escapes him in another heady sigh. He doesn't move.

Slowly, delighted by how well this has gone, Greg coaxes a second finger very slowly into Mycroft's body. The further he can get, the greater final effect this will have. Once, Mycroft woke to the head of Greg's cock just starting to breach him. Greg will never forget that reaction. He's never heard Mycroft plead for something so desperately in his life. 

He keeps on pressing slowly inwards, soothing his way deeper until Mycroft's body hugs both his fingers tight. Mycroft's cock twitches in his mouth, hopeful and restless. Greg knows that he's asking to be caught now, but he can't resist rubbing with his tongue, wet, broad motions, slow and slick and easy. He suspects he timed this perfectly to the start of a pretty dream. Mycroft's hips begin to rock just a little, sleepily chasing the pleasure he's being given, half-conscious and hazy. His sounds come soft, feathered somewhere between breathing and moaning; it's making Greg so hard he has to press his aching cock against the mattress for relief. Mycroft has relaxed beautifully around his fingers. He feels warm and soft and ready, his body eager for Greg to do more. If his mouth were empty, Greg might have smiled. He settles for sliding another inch of Mycroft's cock past his gag reflex, closing his eyes with a shiver. 

Slowly he starts to thrust with his fingers.

Mycroft's whole body jerks. He breathes in hard, bucking up, then lets out a noise like a breathy whine. Greg feels the very moment when he wakes up. It's marked by a flash of tightness in Mycroft's inner muscles, as he discovers that he's full of his husband's fingers and his cock is buried deep inside Greg's mouth. He lets out a shocked gasp, then a desperate, keening moan. His fingers rake into Greg's hair, scrunch and hold on tight.

"Greg," he whimpers, his throat dry. His voice cracks as his thighs open wider.  _ "Greg—" _

Humming around his mouthful, Greg thrusts his fingers harder and faster into Mycroft's body. 

Mycroft bows upwards from the mattress. He cries out, tightening his grip in Greg's hair, and pulls back his legs for Greg to fingerfuck him deeper. It's easier to angle towards Mycroft's prostate like this; Greg drives against it over and over, listening with burning enjoyment to his husband's slew of pleas and blasphemy. He concentrates on building a rhythm between his mouth and his fingers, fast and relentless, keeping Mycroft pinned into place as he tries to writhe in search of more.

As Mycroft's breath becomes ragged, and his begging and his pleading grow quiet, Greg releases Mycroft's cock from his throat. He pulls out his fingers, ignoring the desperate whimper of confusion, and comes closer up the bed. 

He puts one hand each on the insides of Mycroft's knees, pushing them wide apart. 

Mycroft cries out.

_ "Fuck," _ he gasps, enunciating the sound with total conviction. He reaches down with shaking hands to guide the head of Greg's cock into place. "Fuck, fuck—"

Holding Mycroft's legs apart, panting, Greg bites his lip and pushes inwards.

Mycroft's fervent chanting of 'fuck' undergoes a distinct increase in pitch.

"Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck, fuck—" _

In a rush, Greg realises that his own hands are shaking. He can't bear to wait. Mycroft is just too tight, too slick and too hot, his grey eyes flashing prettily with the need to be fucked. Nobody in the world could resist that.

Driving in deep to the root, he starts to thrust at once, fast and ungentle.

Mycroft claws into the mattress. He throws his head back in delirium and hisses,  _ "Yessssss...!" _ from the depths of his throat. The sound breaks into another cry as Greg shifts the angle, sinking a vital extra inch inside his husband's body.

_ "Greg!" _ Mycroft lets out, sobbing it. "Greg, please—pound me— _ please—"  _

Greg, ever a gentleman, finishes what he started. It's animal and it's rough. The noises Mycroft makes are so pretty that Greg truly, deeply wishes they were filming this. He fucks Mycroft as if both of them need it to live, Mycroft's moans and pleas only driving him on. When Mycroft comes, he comes clawing at Greg's shoulder and begging Greg to fuck him through it. There'll be scratch marks down Greg's back. He doesn't care. His own climax finally hits with the force of a volcano. He bites into Mycroft's shoulder as wave after wave of heaving pleasure blisters through his body. 

Mycroft moans it all back to him, stroking his hair, whispering in Greg's ear to enjoy it.

In the thundering, satisfied calm which sweeps over them, Mycroft's legs stayed wrapped around Greg's waist. Everything seems to be pounding, pulsing. Sweat glistens on Greg's back; he doesn't want to pull out. He wants to stay inside Mycroft until he's soft and nature takes its course. If there was some way for them to sleep at night with his cock held deep in Mycroft's body, he would do it. 

"Good morning," he husks, still breathing heavily. His husband's fingertips skim across the sweat on his back, petting him with almost lazy delight. "How did you sleep?"

Mycroft inhales with a shiver. He crosses his ankles and rests them on Greg's lower back, then lifts his head just enough to drag his tongue up the column of Greg's throat.

"I am  _ endlessly  _ glad that I married you," he breathes.


End file.
